


Pyrite

by sequence_fairy



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 20:32:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12261582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequence_fairy/pseuds/sequence_fairy
Summary: The cracks are how the light gets in.





	Pyrite

**Author's Note:**

> Not!angst, written for [doctorroseprompts](http://doctorroseprompts.tumblr.com)' 'ramifications of Bad Wolf' prompt.

Rose likes to watch him when she thinks he doesn’t notice. When he’s tinkering with the TARDIS or reading something, glasses perched on his nose and shoulders curled over the pages. She likes how soft he looks, how human. She remembers the blazing fire of his rage, incandescent and terrifying; she knows the darkness of his soul, shattered into as many pieces as the lost planet Gallifrey.

And then, Rose looked into the TARDIS, and the TARDIS looked into her and Rose became the Bad Wolf, and the Bad Wolf looked into the Doctor. She saw him, all his foibles, all his triumphs, golden wings beating in the corners of her vision and the dizzying spin of time in her veins. He’s not human. He’s so much more alien than she ever believed. And yet, when he curls up next to her on the sofa in the green library, long legs wearing soft pants and no shoes on his feet, he’s just the Doctor, a slightly more than eccentric man with an odd penchant for bananas.

And then, they’re facing down a slobbering pack of wild pig-things in some far-flung corner of the universe and it’s as if he’s regained the mantle that he sheds when they are alone together in the TARDIS. The coat billows out behind him, and sometimes she swears he picks breezy spots on purpose just so he can look impressive while he defends her from the antagonistic alien of the day. But she can see it. She can see the moment when he stops being just the Doctor and becomes a Time Lord. She can see it in the set of his shoulders, and in his eyes, ancient in that young face, staring down the length of an energy blade, his fearless posture the perfect buttress for her own courage.

In those moments, she swears she can hear the singing in the back of her mind and she can feel the beating of wings against her vision, fingers of golden light curling and twining around herself and the Doctor. Rose breathes in and the threads of Time stretch out before her in her mind. She can see all that ever was, and all that ever will be and she knows all the outcomes of all the choices and then it’s gone, when she blinks, and she never tells him what she sees.

On Draynar 9 she hears the whisper of the knife in the hand of the native at their backs and screams. The Doctor turns, avoiding a blow that would have killed a lesser being and netting him a nasty slash across the back of his hand that she insists on stitching herself in the med bay, hands shaking; the afterimage of another possible outcome fresh in her mind. In ancient Egypt, she knows the answer to the Sphinx’s riddle before they’re even asked and the Doctor watches her carefully as they make a pit stop in present-day London for Rose’s necessities. They don’t discuss it as they’re thrown headlong into another adventure on an impossible planet and it’s Rose that kills the devil as the Doctor saves them from a black hole. He never does tell her exactly what happened in the pit, but she sees the way he reaches out for her more often and notices he sleeps less than usual for a time afterward.

They avoid what would have been death for her and regeneration for him on an out of the way moon in the Andromeda galaxy when Rose figures out the assassination plot and sniffs out the traitors, while the Doctor is busy disarming this week’s doomsday device, and it’s Rose, blonde hair flying on a windless planet with the turn of the universe burning in her eyes, that stares down the invading force, and it is she that sends them running.

The look the Doctor gives her when they reach the TARDIS is unreadable, like he’s not at all certain of what to do with what’s just happened. He sends her to make him a cup of tea, and instead of arguing, she just goes. When she returns, he’s so far under the console she can only see his feet, so she leaves the tea beside his left one.  Overwhelmed with the day, she heads for her room.

That night she dreams of doors and rooms and hallways that stretch for miles. She dreams of golden light and the turn of the universe and she hears the singing, the chiming bells that have followed her since her desperation took flight with help from a big yellow truck. She dreams of his face; soft and so young looking, such tragedy in his eyes as he fades away on a beach in Norway, her name the last thing on his lips and her face wet with tears. She dreams of his other self; the close-cropped hair and face-splitting grin. A northern voice and “ _run, Rose, run for your life,_ ” echoing behind her as she races down a darkened corridor, towards the TARDIS, desperate to reach him and too late when she rounds the corner in a skid of trainers on concrete as he smiles fondly at her and then bursts into a shower of golden light.

She wakes with a start and a heart-wrenching loneliness that seeps into her very bones, sucking all the warmth from her and leaving her shivery and clammy. She wraps herself in the warmest quilt she can find, and pads along the corridors to the room she likes to call his study. It’s a comfortable room, lined with shelves filled with both books and the curiosities he’s picked up in his travels. There’s a desk in the corner for him, and it’s in a perpetual state of organized chaos. The sofa is grey and squishy, and the dusky lavender settee on the other side of the low table is the perfect place to recline to read on a rare lazy afternoon. He always keeps the door cracked when he’s working, so she knows when she’s welcome, and tonight, the soft light of his desk lamp spills into the hall through the open doorway.

She steps in and curls herself onto the couch before looking up at him. He’s absorbed by whatever he’s reading, glasses on and hair ruffled like he’s been tugging at it, like he does when he’s thinking through a tough problem. He’s taken off the suit-jacket, and has rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, tie pulled loose and shoes kicked off under the desk. She knows he knows she’s there. They’re so attuned to each other, and she thinks she has the TARDIS to blame for that, but she doesn’t mind. He doesn’t leave off what he’s reading, so she watches him, and eventually, cocooned in the warmth of the quilt and his presence, she sleeps.

When she wakes, it’s to the grind of the rotor, and the thumping thud of a landing not quite stuck and his voice calling her, getting closer as he comes to find her. She tumbles off the couch, tangled in the quilt and pitches forward into his arms as she tries to stand. She doesn’t miss the way he shivers when he touches her, and the answering tingle in her own skin. The slow burn of something in her veins makes her reach out to touch his face.

He steps back awkwardly. “Don’t,” he says, putting up a hand to forestall any protests and flees in the direction he came. Her heart hammers in her chest, and the golden song echoes in the back of her mind. She shakes her head to clear it, drags her fingers through her hair and goes to find the Doctor.

He’s waiting for her in the console room, “come along Rose,” he says, offering her his hand. She’s still wearing the soft t-shirt and low-slung pajama pants she wears to sleep in and she needs to brush her teeth, but she takes his hand and he leads her outside.  The tingle from earlier is now just the familiar warmth of his palm against hers and Rose allows herself to think that this morning’s aberration was just that, an aberration. Nothing special about holding hands, they do that all the time. Rose smiles up at him and they step out together.

She blinks in the bright sunlight, feeling like it’s the first time she’s been properly warm in ages. The air is heavy, wet, and smells like green things and heat. They’re in a clearing, in a proper alien jungle and Rose, barefoot, can feel the springy moss beneath her feet. The Doctor’s grinning, like the madman he is, and he’s pulling her along behind him and Rose can’t quite catch her breath in the moist air. She feels slow and languid, like melted honey or softened gold and distantly she hears the Doctor’s voice, laced with concern as she gives in to the syrupy drag of the humidity.

She doesn’t see the way her skin burns molten gold as she slips into unconsciousness or the way the Doctor scrambles to get her back into the TARDIS, and she misses the battery of tests he runs on her blood as he waits for her to wake up. She also doesn’t hear him swear viciously as he reads the printout with her results.

–

She wakes with difficulty, and blinks heavy eyes in the harsh light of the TARDIS med bay. The Doctor is there beside her, and for all that he’s assuring her she’s fine and nothing’s happened, just a bit too much humidity all at once, Rose knows he knows. His eyes are different, ancient and ageless, and he’s careful to keep her at arm’s length as he walks her back to her room. She catches his eye as he leaves her at her door, and doesn’t miss the emotions that flitter across his face; fear, surprise, awe, before he shutters them away and shuts her out. He leaves her at her door, muttering about some fine-tuning some detector of stuff needs. Rose sighs and watches him go, all easy grace and light feet.

She takes a shower, brushes her teeth, and finds something clean to wear, making a mental note to do some laundry in the near future. She pins her wet hair up off her neck, and slips out of her room to nearly trip over the Doctor’s legs where he’s sitting outside her door.

“How long Rose?” He asks, not looking at her, and Rose’s heart stutters in her chest, “How long have you known?”

Rose sinks down to the floor with him, and takes his face in her hands, “Doctor,” she says, “I looked into the TARDIS and the TARDIS looked into me. I felt the turn of the universe and the yawning abyss of the void, and I stood at the centre of time and you were there.” She says, keeping her voice quiet and careful. The Doctor tries to look away, but she holds his chin steady, “look into my eyes Doctor, what do you see?”

“Rose,” he says her name, like a prayer or a plea and he closes his eyes and she drops her hands. He scrubs a palm across his face and tugs at his ear. He looks up at her again, and there, the beating of the golden wings and the chiming song and he’s the Time Lord, something powerful lurking in his gaze, “you are not meant to feel that,” and Rose shakes her head, but he continues on, “I took it out of you, absorbed the Vortex and gave it back to the TARDIS, and – and I died doing so, and I would do it again, a thousand times for you, but I can’t –” and he heaves out a sigh, looking no more the Time Lord, just a man at a loss, “Rose, when I look into your eyes, I can see it. The Vortex,” he explains, and she nods. She knows.  

“You’re still carrying part of the TARDIS inside you, you look human enough still, but you’re not, oh Rassilon, you’re not. You’re something more, I checked. You’ve got the Vortex in your blood Rose, and it’s changing you, changing your very DNA. You shouldn’t - you shouldn’t have been able to do what you did, but Rose you did.” He looks into her eyes and Rose looks back and for a moment, she sees their timelines, twined together, stretching to infinity, and she can’t breathe with the beauty of it.

“You’re wonderful and fantastic, and brilliant and you cannot make pancakes to save your life, and you are compassionate and strong and Rose, my Rose,” he reaches for her, and she curls under his arm, leaning her head on his chest, “you absorbed the whole thing, Rose, all of it, even a Time Lord can’t survive that, don’t ask me how you managed, and I took it out of you and I gave it back. And yet, it’s like it’s just waiting there in the back your mind, the power and the knowledge,” the Doctor strokes an idle hand down her arm and Rose suppresses a shiver as gooseflesh follows the trail of his fingers.  

“There are whispers Rose, across time and space, of the Bad Wolf; the woman with the turn of the universe in her eyes and the power to turn an army on its heel.” The Doctor lifts her chin so she is looking up at him, their eyes meet, and when he speaks again, his voice is low and dark, and Rose feels the coiling of desire at the base of her spine, “they say that she walks the paths untraveled and that with her walks the last of the Time Lords. They say she keeps him safe.”

“You are mine, Time Lord,” Rose breathes, and pressed against him on the floor, Rose can feel rather than hear the sharp intake of breath at the title. Rose reaches a hand up to cup his cheek, and he leans into her touch, “I will see you safe, my Doctor.” The corridor lights up around them and she can see herself reflected golden in his eyes. She can read the terror on his face, not of her, but for her, and as she draws in a careful breath, the light pulses and goes out.  He lets out a shaky breath and Rose can see the way he draws the cloak of the Time Lord around him, rebuilding the armour that she knows doesn’t keep him as safe as he’d like.

“Tea?” he says eventually, and stands, reaching down for her hand. Rose looks up at him, and doesn’t miss the quickly concealed flicker of something she can’t define in his gaze as she meets his eyes. She grips his hand and he pulls her to her feet. “I’m sorry Rose,” he begins and she shakes her head, but he presses on, “it’s going to be – going to take me some time to get used to what I’m seeing when I look into your eyes. You’re – it’s like looking into the Vortex all the time, chaos and time threads and I can’t – Rose, I’m sorry,” he finishes lamely, scrubbing a hand through his hair, adding more sticky-up bits to its already dishevelled state. He turns to head to the kitchen and Rose falls into step beside him.

The Doctor pulls down mugs and sets the kettle to boil. He fusses with the box of biscuits, arranging them on a plate just so. “D’you think I could hop through time without the TARDIS?” Rose asks, sitting down at the sturdy wooden table.

“Well,” he says, drawing out the word, “I don’t know about that. We could test it, in a controlled environment, with me along for the ride. And no chance of being shoved off course or landing somewhere we shouldn’t or causing a paradox.” The Doctor pours them both a mug of tea. He spoons sugar into hers, adds milk and honey to his own and places the plate of biscuits on the table between them. The Doctor takes a sip of his tea, cradling the mug in his hands as he leans back in his chair, “I’ve never seen anything like this, or read anything about this, or even anything remotely similar to this,” he says, “we’re deep in unfamiliar territory here.”

Rose dunks a biscuit in her tea, and munches thoughtfully for a moment. The Doctor looks up from his mug, eyes sharp and focused on her. Rose shivers under that thousand year stare, and drops her gaze to look into her mug, “You asked me how long earlier.” The Doctor nods. “With the Sycorax and your regeneration at Christmas, I didn’t realise that anything had happened. And I didn’t remember then what happened on the Game Station anyway.

“It wasn’t until we went to Scotland in 1879 that I noticed anything different. When the wolf told me that I had something of it in me, I heard the song again and it all made sense.” Rose rubs her arms, chasing away the gooseflesh that ripples across her skin. She remembers the power thrumming through her, remembers stopping the Dalek laser with her bare hand, remembers the death knell and the screams of the Daleks as she obliterated them with a word, and remembers the kiss to save her life. “It’s the same song, always, these chiming bells in the back of my mind, and when you’re being Time Lord-y,” the Doctor snorts and Rose arches an eyebrow before continuing on, “I can see this golden light around you and me, and it’s like wings beating in the corners of my eyes and I can see it, the possibilities stretching out before me in my mind, all that ever was and all that could be.

“That’s how I knew about the knife, on Draynar 9. I saw him stab you, and oh God, Doctor, I saw you  _die_.” Rose shudders at the remembered terror. “You, lying on the ground, knife in your gut, bleeding all over the place, and I couldn’t -” she squeezes her eyes shut, trying to hold off tears, because she remembers him apologizing while he was choking on his own blood, apologizing to her for dying, his eyes huge and scared and voice thready and hands scrabbling at the ground beneath him. He hadn’t died though, she’d saved him, she just needs to hold on to that, forget the might have been and remember the now. She thinks she might understand now, a little, about the madness that lurks behind the Doctor’s eyes. He sees it all the time, time threads and possibilities and choices made and unmade. Rose wonders how he can stand it. The Doctor reaches across the table to squeeze her hands in his, reassuring her that he’s listening.

“And your dreams?” Rose looks down and away, “I know you’ve been having nightmares. You always used to sleep through the night, no matter what we’d been through. Even after the Cybermen. It’s been months since you last slept a full night in your own bed,” Rose looks up at him sharply, “I pay attention too, you know,” the Doctor says with a grin, and sets aside his empty mug, then gestures her to go on.

“Yeah, I know you do.” Rose answers, picking another chocolate biscuit to dunk into her now cold cup of tea, “I usually dream about hallways filled with doors that go on forever. Not really scary or anything, just unsettling.” She doesn’t tell him about the beach, or the loneliness, or the way she’s been carefully cataloguing everything about him, because somehow she’s sure this is a premonition, not just a dream.

She stands, gathers their mugs and the empty plate and sets them in the sink, then turns to lean back on the counter, facing the table and the Doctor, “you don’t sleep much either, “ she states, and he nods. She knows he doesn’t need much sleep, but wonders if there’s more to it than that, if his dreams chase him from his bed like hers do.

“Don’t need as much as you,” he says, shrugging, and aiming for nonchalance she knows he doesn’t feel. She can see the way his eyes turn distant and inward and Rose lets it go. Knowing when to push and when to accept what he says at face value is a hard-won knack and she’s happy to have finally mastered it. “Anyway, I thought we might make a stop in London, pick up some supplies – our selection of tea is woefully unimaginative.” Rose laughs, bright and sunny in the kitchen and the Doctor grins.

“Can I drive?” Rose asks, cheeky grin lighting up her face, and the Doctor pauses in the doorway, looking back at her, “I might as well learn how Doctor, what if something happens to you and I have to get us out of a sticky situation? I mean, I know that the doors will hold back most things, but what if we run into something that it doesn’t hold back?  It’s a big universe out there, there’s gotta be things you and the TARDIS haven’t met.”

“Actually,” the Doctor drawls, “I had been thinking that you should learn how to drive. It’s better with two anyway, easier to manage the controls and, you know, many hands make light work.” He offers her his hand and they walk hand in hand to the console room.


End file.
